You hear the door click quietly closed.
"There might be war, dear prince."
Smoke and wine wafting with the breeze of the closing door, a last sigh from the festivity of the feast even as muffled music and laughter try to make their way through the walls, through the floor, under the door. The people are worried, and so they party. This room was supposed to stay quiet.
"Please. Let me remember you."
The hand on your back is gentle, but the calluses and roughness still nearly scrape your skin through the thin nightgown. Gentle, gentle, gentle, the same way those hands held yours while you both held the books open. The same way it folded over your own to guide and tighten your fingers, in folding brush and pen and blade. Correcting, guiding.
The voice is almost desperate. Haggard. It's a new tone, one with tears like well water beneath the surface. Gentle, even as you hear the strain in making it so.
The fingertips between your shoulder blades slide down your spine. Questioning. Permission has not been granted.
Permission has always been granted.
The voice is closer to your ear, now. Quiet enough to still hear the ongoing party below.
"One night. Let me take care of you. Just for this night."
The other hand is on your hip, now. Gentle, but a firmer grip; a dance lesson's grip that was allowed to linger. That lingered still. A gentle warmth, as the ambient body heat warmed your back. Questioning. Wanting.
This room was supposed to stay quiet. Nobody was supposed to enter without your permission -- you hold the only key. The next word is whispered right beside your ear, you feel the soft lips brush gently against the curve of it. The hand on your hip tightens, a twitch.
Oh my dearest mirrored prose writer, it has been some time hasnβt it, may the masses rejoice from what tender scenes you grace us with here
dailybridgerton
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